


liar

by verity



Category: Den lille Havfrue | The Little Mermaid - Hans Christian Andersen, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, But Not As Unhappy As The Original Story Probably, Gen, Merman Stiles, Prince Scott, Souls, Unhappy Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-26
Updated: 2014-05-26
Packaged: 2018-01-26 15:07:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1692749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/verity/pseuds/verity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Deaton is the witch of the court, the one who took a hundred years from your father, and the one who’ll take your voice from you. “It’s the source of your power,” he says, touching your throat with just the tip of his fingers. “Unable to speak, to sing, to lie—who will you be?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	liar

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dirtydirtychai](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dirtydirtychai/gifts), [languisity](https://archiveofourown.org/users/languisity/gifts).



> Written at the behest of languisity and Chai! Thanks to Ashe and languisity for cheering me on.

Your mouth has always gotten you in trouble.

Father says that you got your voice from your mother, like your name and your soul. You spend your childhood trying to duck your minders and find your way up to the surface where she lives. “We’re in the middle of the ocean, stupid boy,” your cousin Lydia says every time she catches you. “What do you think you’re going to find?”

But you know that Father heard her up there. She has a voice more beautiful than any of your cousins or your aunts, than any woman in the mer court, and he traded a century off his life to spend a night with her. Then she birthed you and returned you to the sea. She’s up above the waves, above the ceiling of your cerulean sky. You roll your eyes at Lydia as she twists her hand in your fin. “You’re just mad because you can’t even breathe up there,” you say. “You’re jealous.”

Trouble, trouble, trouble.

—

Deaton is the witch of the court, the one who took a hundred years from your father, and the one who’ll take your voice from you. “It’s the source of your power,” he says, touching your throat with just the tip of his fingers. “Unable to speak, to sing, to lie—who will you be?”

"I’m not a liar," you lie, twining your fingers together behind your back so your hands don’t betray you. Cross your heart, hope to die. Your heart is where the brilliant shimmer of your soul has settled. Now it weighs heavy on you. "I just want to find her."

"The people who walk above have short lives," Deaton cautions you.

You say, “I know.”

—

Father’s life was supposed to be long and full; he should have had decades upon decades to rule before he resigned his crown. But his beard is white and his eyes mournful and rheumy with the price he paid for your mother (for you). Without a soul, he’ll return to the sea at his death, float as foam upon the waves above until he mists into the air. Your father pats your soft, young hand with his wrinkled one and says, “That’s the way of the sea, son.”

Your cousin Lydia is fascinated with the world above. She curates artifacts from shipwrecks and studies them, strange metal tools and powdery cosmetics, heavy books whose pages sag and fade underwater. Lydia is the one you ask, “How do I get a soul?”

"You already have a soul," she says dismissively.

"I was born with one," you say. "How would  _you_  get one?”

Lydia turns away from you toward her wall of books. “I’d have to steal it,” she says. “So you’re lucky I don’t want one.”

—

You don’t feel different without a voice, not at first. It’s merely curious when you open your mouth and only a breath of air comes out. You still have your purpose, your goal, your determination. None of that’s been taken from you.

So you punch into the water, kick and flail your way upward with your new limbs, forget grace or caution. You swim to the surface. Then you keep going.

—

The boy who plucks you from the sea is about your age, about your size, though his skin is sun-bronzed where yours is sea-pale. “Are you okay? Where did you  _come_  from?” he says. “Here—Mom, some water?”

A woman kneels down next to you on the wooden deck of the vessel where you’re sprawled heat-struck and weak-limbed. The boy pulls your head into his lap, raises you up enough that you don’t choke when the woman tips a flask of something flat and leather-tasting between your lips. You swallow on instinct. It takes you a moment to realize that this is what they mean by water.

"Can you speak, sweetheart?" the woman says.

The boy is so close—it would be easy to arch your back, press your mouth to his, take what you came for. But you’re tired, and he’s warm and soft, and above you, white sails furl against the open sky. You’re still as curious about this world above as you were as a child. You shake your head; you stay quiet.

—

The boy’s name is Scott, and he is a Prince, like you. His mother, so quick to lower herself to aid you, is a Queen. They give you gently-used clothes and soft leather shoes that do nothing to dull the pain of standing on your legs, your false limbs.

"Can you write?" Scott asks after you’ve slept and eaten a dour meal of salt pork and biscuit that sits hard in your belly.

You shrug, but you take the paper and pen Scott offers you. Lydia is the only one in the mer court who studies the ways of men, but you’ve learned a little from her.  _STILES_ , you print carefully—that’s as close to your mer name as their letters shape. Then you point to yourself.

Scott smiles at you the way light filters through water, warm and diffuse. “That’s an unusual name. Are you far from home?”

You nod.

"Where’s your family? Your—" He gestures toward his ship, the crew. "People."

You point to the waves around you and Scott winces with sympathy.

Your voice has always been your strength, but up here, you don’t need it at all. Men are generous, kind, but they’re stupid. They’re eager to believe what they see in front of them.

—

The longer you stay, the harder it is to leave. You can’t take just any soul for your father—you want one as beautiful as the one your mother put inside of you, the one that troubles you now as you search the men around you and prepare. Will you take it from the Queen, from her servant Isaac or Scott’s knight Boyd? Will you take it from the Lady Erica or Kira the captain? You won’t, and there’s the problem.

Your first instinct was the right one.

"Let’s play chess," Scott suggests. "You’ve played that before, right?"

—

Scott is engaged to marry the Grand Duchess Allison, and it is toward their wedding that you are sailing now. When Scott talks about her, his face warms like Lydia’s does as she enters her treasury of curiosities and books, like Father’s does when he speaks of your mother. You don’t want to warm to his presence, but you do. You spend hours listening to him tell you about Allison, about her beauty and virtues and the life he hopes to make for them. Scott spills his secrets into you as carelessly as he tips an overfull cup into the sea. With each word, your soul grows heavier.

"Is there anyone you care for?" Scott asks you. "Oh—wait—" His brow furrows, recalling your loss. "I’m sorry."

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out but air.

—

The Queen dresses you in gold cloth and satin, worn but still gleaming. “What, did you think we’d turn you away?” she says when you gape at the garb that Erica lays out on your cot. “You’ve been such a good companion to Scott.”

"I wish you’d be such a good companion to  _me_ ,” Erica says under her breath with a leer.

You stand next to them behind Scott when you step off the boat, and it is only force of will that keeps you going when your feet touch land. The ache of your separation from the sea below you was dull; each step away from the shore is like one onto a bed of knives. You’d scream, but all you can do is gasp. Erica grabs your arm, steadies you with her grip and her glare. No one else seems to notice that anything is wrong. You follow their gazes and then yours, too, is fixed: Scott and his Allison running to meet each other, heedless with joy.

—

You slip from your quarters that night and wander the halls until you find Scott’s. He’s asleep, his breath easy and sound. You wish you could write more than your mer name, could say the one that your mother gave to you. Maybe you’d do what you told Deaton you planned—find her, listen to the song that your father gave up a third of his life to hear. Deaton was right: you are a liar, and without your voice, you’re neither prince nor son, neither friend nor lover.

You wait until nearly sunrise before you leave.

—

"Back so soon?" Deaton says. He doesn’t sound surprised. "What will you trade me now?"

—

Maybe it’s a blessing that you can’t feel anything when you go to your father’s sickbed, except for the weight of your soul, which reminds you of your purpose. “Where have you been?” Father says. His voice is weak, and he doesn’t open his eyes. “I’ve missed you.”

"I’ve missed you, too," you say as you take his hand into your own. Of course, you have, though you’re already beginning to forget it.

You wait until Father is falling asleep to lean forward, to breathe it out, your golden shimmer; he breathes it in as easily as water. “What have you done, my son?” he murmurs, reaching up to touch your face.

"I loved you," you say. Without a heart to move you or a soul to push you, you’re no liar. "What else was I supposed to do?"

Your father says, “Sing to me.”

**Author's Note:**

> I'm [ladyofthelog](http://ladyofthelog.tumblr.com) on tumblr.


End file.
